Some disjointed thoughts

1. The rain is back, and it is welcome. The sun had me tormented. Applying Factor 50 to every inch of exposed skin. Re-applying it 30 minutes later. Tilting and re-positioning my hat this way and that, but still looking like I had a want in me.

Feeling the fear at every text coming through once the office blocks released them. "Beer garden?" Going along, because I am there at everything now, a social animal for the first time in all my days.

Edging my chair back into the shade every time that bastard in the sky made a move, chatting to my beloved friends from the shadows, while they lapped up rays that would appear only as a fresh lot of freckles in the morning.

The ears are the real worry, so they say. And the top of the head. And the hands.

You couldn't be up to that skin cancer, and where it might strike.

2. My hair is still falling out. Tomorrow I am going to visit a special hair salon where they deal mostly with women on chemotherapy and sufferers of alopecia.

I am worried that the clients with cancer will hate me, for being there in my vanity, for having life ahead of me, rather than creeping away from me.

But I look forward to seeing the ends of my tresses dropping to the floor. I was hanging on to them, thinking that if I had length, it would disguise the absence of fullness. But they are scraggly, thinned and waning. They have to go.

3. The work scene is a tricky one these days. Those healing weeks I needed to take after my transplant put me out of favour with my on-again-off-again employers.

I am trying to pitch ideas to newspapers. Some weeks I think I'm getting somewhere, only to be put back in my box the next.

I have enjoyed intervieweing, researching and writing to a deadline again though. Seeing my byline over a piece that is about someone other than myself, and about something other than dialysis.

But the newspaper industry is in about as good a shape as my old kidneys. The freelance pickings are scarce, and it offers nothing in terms of security or certainty of an income from one landlord visit to the next.

I have so much joy now, so much interest in every other aspect of living. I am in an almost constant state of delight at how well I feel.

But I have nothing left in the tank when it comes to dragging work out of this recession. I have been begging for scraps of temporary employment for two and a half years, showing up on time, often on days when I was hardly fit to bless myself, and working hard for people who would never value my efforts.

It seems somehow insulting that after all I have come through, after my little miracle, the loss of one life to save mine, that still I sit here and fret over such mundane issues as bank balances and pay slips.

4. I tried Zumba for the first time last night. What a load of nonsense. But what total and utter fun.

It's not often that any of us dance anymore. Increasingly, we seek out seats in the pub, where we talk and drink within our circle. There is rarely a nite club chanced, even after several scoops.

And to dance soberly? Perish the thought.

I will definitely go back next week.

Something to declare

For the first time in three years and seven months, I left the country at the weekend.

One passport facilitated this, and will facilitate all future trips, in legal terms; but it is the other passport that will give me the world.

It was just a short hop across the water, to London. But my word, the butterflies! And the spontaneous smiling that started a good 48 hours before I even picked up my boarding pass.

It was the thought, you see, of just waking up and being somewhere. And with such ease.

By coincidence, the bus I take to the airport passes through Beaumont, the suburb of the city where I had my transplant almost five months ago now.

Looking in at the rooftops of the hospital, a whole host of memories collided in my mind's eye. Arriving there, leaving there, laughing there, crying there.

The image also of walking up the flight of stairs at the end of the ward two days after the operation, hanging on to the arm of my physio, flinching and trying to get used to the feeling of a new organ inside.

Life never stands still. I thank God for that.

There were some nerves shifting inside me, of course. That I might eat something funny and become unwell over there, or that the airport security people would wrestle my medication from my hands, and I'd have to turn back, defeated.

But they didn't take any notice of me. I guess few enough suicide bombers appear at the departure gates, grinning manically.

I always relish the take-off. It is an action that encapsulates nicely the sum of my commitment issues - the thrill of escaping, of being out of reach, with an awesome force behind you.

Up in the clouds, I had a window seat. I considered that at this great height, I must be closer to my donor in some way. Not in a religious or spiritual context, but just by virtue of being up here, away from the sad events that ruin lives below, closer to all that is mysterious and indescribable above.

I have been to London a number of times, but not in several years. The destination, in truth, was unimportant. This was all about the symbolic, the emotional, the next step in the rebirth and rehabilitation from sick to well.

I was free to be a carefree daytripper; free to annoy my travelling companion by constantly declaring "To the Tower..!"

I did subsequently change the phrase after we had completed our tour of the digs where Anne Boleyn passed her final hours before Henry VIII did her in.

"To the tube..!" however turned out to be no less irritating.

Free to have bananas for a healthy breakfast, and wine at dinner, and ice cream for dessert, before bed in a hotel where my luggage consisted of one girlie suitcase, rather than a coffin-sized case for one dialysis machine.

There was a lot of walking, and while I always had the fitness for exercise, now I have a body of limbs that aren't starved for energy, the evil that was anaemia banished.

We knocked to see if the Queen wanted to come out to play, but she wasn't in. I thought she might let me use the bathroom, for this is the one difficulty with being in the community of the recently transplanted.

The number of public toilets I now am forced to visit. The things I have seen. I could write a book, and perhaps I will.

We flew home Monday night, having also visited the Tate, where my lovely friend declared all art to be "bollox"; having seen 'Chicago' on the West End; and having passed our favourite hour of the trip, running fingers over the spines of second hand books on South Bank by the Thames.

It is the first stop on what I am calling the Freedom Tour 2012. Next stop is Paris. Then I think I'll take myself over to the United States in the Fall.

There are thoughts in my head also of EMIGRATION*. Of leaving this place for a while, for a change of lifestyle to match this changing of the guard with my organs.

What good this miracle if I don't feed it with adventure, with sights unseen, with strange accents and sunsets on the other side of the world?

We shall see, we shall see.

*I managed somehow to spell this incorrectly when I posted initially. Unforgivable. Not least because my thesis for my Masters degree was on the subject of 'Immigration'. It even had it in the title. There must be a stray toxin or two in my brain still.